Ken Weber: Bluebirds seeking naturalistic nesting site

Providence Journal, RI – Aug 4, 2014
The flash of blue is unmistakable. There is no other blue quite like it; probably no other color among wild creatures is as compelling. That blue stops me every time.
A male bluebird has flown in and landed on a stump in a pasture. Just like that, all the other things that were dominating my walk along a country road are pushed from mind: three wild turkeys that followed cows, snatching up grasshoppers; barn swallows zigzagging above the grass; butterflies that bounced from flowering weed to weedy flower; chipmunks that popped in and out of stone walls; and a red squirrel that dashed along a tumbled wall as if sprinting on level ground. A bluebird can take over all thoughts, especially now.
The last couple of years have not been very good for bluebirds. Cold, wet springs have hurt their nesting success; numbers are down a bit. But this scene of the bluebird on the stump is extra significant. It’s heartening for two reasons.
First, it’s a “natural” setting. For many decades, back when the New England countryside featured small farms, bluebirds nested in orchards and around pastures, using holes in apple trees and hollow fence posts. These days, with fewer such cavities available to them, most bluebirds use nesting boxes put up for them by people. It’s a worthy effort, and the birds would be in bigger trouble without those boxes, but I enjoy seeing a bluebird back on a farm, without a birdhouse, apparently living as bluebirds did a hundred years ago.
I get the same feeling from a goldfinch working in a patch of thistles, tearing apart the seed heads, or a hummingbird hovering in front of a trumpet creeper or sipping nectar from some other wildflower. Most of the time we see these birds at backyard feeders, the goldfinches clinging to bags of seeds and the hummingbirds at sugar-water dispensers. Finches and hummers are welcome additions to our yards, but those of us who feed birds may be doing them a disservice by making them ever more dependent on us. It’s better to see them out there “in the wild,” where they belong, working for a living. Like that bluebird.
After watching the bluebird drop from the stump to the pasture grass, snare some insect, and return to its perch, I walk on. Soon, a female bluebird arrives on an overhead wire. Ah, a pair. Even better. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen bluebirds around this farm. A pair could mean they are spending the summer here, possibly nesting.
In looking back at the stump from a different angle, I notice a hole about a foot from the top, and that sparks the second hopeful feeling about the scene: The hole might mean the bluebirds are nesting in the stump, not merely using it as a base for hunting insects. Bluebirds frequently nest two or three times in a summer. Also, it could mean another, perhaps the last, contribution from that stump.
Years ago, when I was first walking along this road, what is now a stump was a slim but spectacular pear tree. It stood alone in the pasture — maybe earlier it had been part of an orchard, maybe not — and commanded attention each spring when it blossomed. I don’t know if it ever produced worthwhile pears, but those gleaming white blossoms lit up the field. I wondered if the farmer had let that tree stand to provide shade for his cows, or if he simply enjoyed the springtime blossom show. Either way, the tree earned its keep.
Storms crippled the tree, a little at a time, breaking off branches. Still, it continued blooming each spring until an ice storm eight or nine years ago snapped the trunk, leaving only the stump, about 3 1/2 feet high. Since that time, the stump has been barely noticeable to passersby, but, obviously, some woodpecker saw enough value — food — in the decaying wood to drill that hole.
Four times, as I linger, the male bluebird leaves the stump, flies to the ground, and returns. Then it does what I’ve been hoping; it goes to the hole and slips inside. I don’t see it carry in an insect, and despite a considerable wait I never see the female bluebird go to the stump, so I don’t think there are eggs or chicks inside. Perhaps the male is simply checking out accommodations, trying to decide if the pear stump might make a suitable nest site in the future.
When I return, a few days later, a female house sparrow is hanging around the stump. No bluebirds are in sight. House sparrows, along with starlings, wrens, tree swallows, and several other birds, also seek hollows for nesting. Those competitors are among the reasons that bluebirds need human help.
Still, having seen that bluebird on the stump had made my day: the rich blue of its back, the brick red of its chest, its darting after insect prey, the visit inside the hole.
Just as encouraging is the idea that the stump of a long-dead pear tree might yet benefit a pair of bluebirds. It may never happen, but there is hope. And that, for a showy old tree, would be the ideal final act.
Ken Weber, whose column appears here weekly, writes books on nature and outdoor recreation. He can be reached by e-mail at kweber@projo.com.